This people was black and white, not only in vision, but by inmost furnishing: black and white not merely in clarity, but in apposition. Their thoughts were at ease only in extremes. They inhabited superlatives by choice. Sometimes inconsistents seemed to possess them at once in joint2 sway; but they never compromised: they pursued the logic3 of several incompatible4 opinions to absurd ends, without perceiving the incongruity5. With cool head and tranquil6 judgement, imperturbably7 unconscious of the flight, they oscillated from asymptote to asymptote.
They were a limited, narrow-minded people, whose inert8 intellects lay fallow in incurious resignation. Their imaginations were vivid, but not creative. There was so little Arab art in Asia that they could almost be said to have had no art, though their classes were liberal patrons, and had encouraged whatever talents in architecture, or ceramics9, or other handicraft their neighbours and helots displayed. Nor did they handle great industries: they had no organizations of mind or body. They invented no systems of philosophy, no complex mythologies10. They steered11 their course between the idols12 of the tribe and of the cave. The least morbid13 of peoples, they had accepted the gift of life unquestioningly, as axiomatic14. To them it was a thing inevitable15, entailed16 on man, a usufruct, beyond control. Suicide was a thing impossible, and death no grief.
They were a people of spasms17, of upheavals18, of ideas, the race of the individual genius. Their movements were the more shocking by contrast with the quietude of every day, their great men greater by contrast with the humanity of their mob. Their convictions were by instinct, their activities intuitional. Their largest manufacture was of creeds20: almost they were monopolists of revealed religions. Three of these efforts had endured among them: two of the three had also borne export (in modified forms) to non-Semitic peoples. Christianity, translated into the diverse spirits of Greek and Latin and Teutonic tongues, had conquered Europe and America. Islam in various transformations21 was subjecting Africa and parts of Asia. These were Semitic successes. Their failures they kept to themselves. The fringes of their deserts were strewn with broken faiths.
It was significant that this wrack22 of fallen religions lay about the meeting of the desert and the sown. It pointed23 to the generation of all these creeds. They were assertions, not arguments; so they required a prophet to set them forth24. The Arabs said there had been forty thousand prophets: we had record of at least some hundreds. None of them had been of the wilderness25; but their lives were after a pattern. Their birth set them in crowded places. An unintelligible26 passionate27 yearning28 drove them out into the desert. There they lived a greater or lesser29 time in meditation30 and physical abandonment; and thence they returned with their imagined message articulate, to preach it to their old, and now doubting, associates. The founders31 of the three great creeds fulfilled this cycle: their possible coincidence was proved a law by the parallel life-histories of the myriad32 others, the unfortunate who failed, whom we might judge of no less true profession, but for whom time and disillusion33 had not heaped up dry souls ready to be set on fire. To the thinkers of the town the impulse into Nitria had ever been irresistible34, not probably that they found God dwelling35 there, but that in its solitude36 they heard more certainly the living word they brought with them.
The common base of all the Semitic creeds, winners or losers, was the ever present idea of world-worthlessness. Their profound reaction from matter led them to preach bareness, renunciation, poverty; and the atmosphere of this invention stifled37 the minds of the desert pitilessly. A first knowledge of their sense of the purity of rarefaction was given me in early years, when we had ridden far out over the rolling plains of North Syria to a ruin of the Roman period which the Arabs believed was made by a prince of the border as a desert-palace for his queen. The clay of its building was said to have been kneaded for greater richness, not with water, but with the precious essential oils of flowers. My guides, sniffing38 the air like dogs, led me from crumbling39 room to room, saying, ‘This is jessamine, this violet, this rose’.
But at last Dahoum drew me: ‘Come and smell the very sweetest scent40 of all’, and we went into the main lodging41, to the gaping42 window sockets43 of its eastern face, and there drank with open mouths of the effortless, empty, eddyless wind of the desert, throbbing44 past. That slow breath had been born somewhere beyond the distant Euphrates and had dragged its way across many days and nights of dead grass, to its first obstacle, the man-made walls of our broken palace. About them it seemed to fret45 and linger, murmuring in baby-speech. ‘This,’ they told me, ‘is the best: it has no taste.’ My Arabs were turning their backs on perfumes and luxuries to choose the things in which mankind had had no share or part.
The Beduin of the desert, born and grown up in it, had embraced with all his soul this nakedness too harsh for volunteers, for the reason, felt but inarticulate, that there he found himself indubitably free. He lost material ties, comforts, all superfluities and other complications to achieve a personal liberty which haunted starvation and death. He saw no virtue46 in poverty herself: he enjoyed the little vices47 and luxuries — coffee, fresh water, women — which he could still preserve. In his life he had air and winds, sun and light, open spaces and a great emptiness. There was no human effort, no fecundity48 in Nature: just the heaven above and the unspotted earth beneath. There unconsciously he came near God. God was to him not anthropomorphic, not tangible49, not moral nor ethical50, not concerned with the world or with him, not natural: but the being αχρωματο?, ασχηματιστο?, αναφη? thus qualified51 not by divestiture52 but by investiture, a comprehending Being, the egg of all activity, with nature and matter just a glass reflecting Him.
The Beduin could not look for God within him: he was too sure that he was within God. He could not conceive anything which was or was not God, Who alone was great; yet there was a homeliness53, an everyday-ness of this climatic Arab God, who was their eating and their fighting and their lusting55, the commonest of their thoughts, their familiar resource and companion, in a way impossible to those whose God is so wistfully veiled from them by despair of their carnal unworthiness of Him and by the decorum of formal worship. Arabs felt no incongruity in bringing God into the weaknesses and appetites of their least creditable causes. He was the most familiar of their words; and indeed we lost much eloquence56 when making Him the shortest and ugliest of our monosyllables.
This creed19 of the desert seemed inexpressible in words, and indeed in thought. It was easily felt as an influence, and those who went into the desert long enough to forget its open spaces and its emptiness were inevitably57 thrust upon God as the only refuge and rhythm of being. The Bedawi might be a nominal58 Sunni, or a nominal Wahabi, or anything else in the Semitic compass, and he would take it very lightly, a little in the manner of the watchmen at Zion’s gate who drank beer and laughed in Zion because they were Zionists. Each individual nomad59 had his revealed religion, not oral or traditional or expressed, but instinctive60 in himself; and so we got all the Semitic creeds with (in character and essence) a stress on the emptiness of the world and the fullness of God; and according to the power and opportunity of the believer was the expression of them.
The desert dweller62 could not take credit for his belief. He had never been either evangelist or proselyte. He arrived at this intense condensation63 of himself in God by shutting his eyes to the world, and to all the complex possibilities latent in him which only contact with wealth and temptations could bring forth. He attained64 a sure trust and a powerful trust, but of how narrow a field! His sterile65 experience robbed him of compassion66 and perverted67 his human kindness to the image of the waste in which he hid. Accordingly he hurt himself, not merely to be free, but to please himself. There followed a delight in pain, a cruelty which was more to him than goods. The desert Arab found no joy like the joy of voluntarily holding back. He found luxury in abnegation, renunciation, self restraint. He made nakedness of the mind as sensuous68 as nakedness of the body. He saved his own soul, perhaps, and without danger, but in a hard selfishness. His desert was made a spiritual ice-house, in which was preserved intact but unimproved for all ages a vision of the unity61 of God. To it sometimes the seekers from the outer world could escape for a season and look thence in detachment at the nature of the generation they would convert.
This faith of the desert was impossible in the towns. It was at once too strange, too simple, too impalpable for export and common use. The idea, the ground-belief of all Semitic creeds was waiting there, but it had to be diluted69 to be made comprehensible to us. The scream of a bat was too shrill70 for many ears: the desert spirit escaped through our coarser texture71. The prophets returned from the desert with their glimpse of God, and through their stained medium (as through a dark glass) showed something of the majesty72 and brilliance73 whose full vision would blind, deafen74, silence us, serve us as it had served the Beduin, setting him uncouth75, a man apart.
The disciples76, in the endeavour to strip themselves and their neighbours of all things according to the Master’s word, stumbled over human weaknesses and failed. To live, the villager or townsman must fill himself each day with the pleasures of acquisition and accumulation, and by rebound77 off circumstance become the grossest and most material of men. The shining contempt of life which led others into the barest asceticism78 drove him to despair. He squandered79 himself heedlessly, as a spendthrift: ran through his inheritance of flesh in hasty longing80 for the end. The Jew in the Metropole at Brighton, the miser81, the worshipper of Adonis, the lecher in the stews82 of Damascus were alike signs of the Semitic capacity for enjoyment83, and expressions of the same nerve which gave us at the other pole the self-denial of the Essenes, or the early Christians84, or the first Khalifas, finding the way to heaven fairest for the poor in spirit. The Semite hovered85 between lust54 and self-denial.
Arabs could be swung on an idea as on a cord; for the unpledged allegiance of their minds made them obedient servants. None of them would escape the bond till success had come, and with it responsibility and duty and engagements. Then the idea was gone and the work ended — in ruins. Without a creed they could be taken to the four corners of the world (but not to heaven) by being shown the riches of earth and the pleasures of it; but if on the road, led in this fashion, they met the prophet of an idea, who had nowhere to lay his head and who depended for his food on charity or birds, then they would all leave their wealth for his inspiration. They were incorrigibly86 children of the idea, feckless and colour-blind, to whom body and spirit were for ever and inevitably opposed. Their mind was strange and dark, full of depressions and exaltations, lacking in rule, but with more of ardour and more fertile in belief than any other in the world. They were a people of starts, for whom the abstract was the strongest motive87, the process of infinite courage and variety, and the end nothing. They were as unstable88 as water, and like water would perhaps finally prevail. Since the dawn of life, in successive waves they had been dashing themselves against the coasts of flesh. Each wave was broken, but, like the sea, wore away ever so little of the granite89 on which it failed, and some day, ages yet, might roll unchecked over the place where the material world had been, and God would move upon the face of those waters. One such wave (and not the least) I raised and rolled before the breath of an idea, till it reached its crest90, and toppled over and fell at Damascus. The wash of that wave, thrown back by the resistance of vested things, will provide the matter of the following wave, when in fullness of time the sea shall be raised once more.
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1
retinue
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| n.侍从；随员 | |
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joint
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| adj.联合的，共同的；n.关节，接合处；v.连接，贴合 | |
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logic
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| n.逻辑(学)；逻辑性 | |
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incompatible
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| adj.不相容的，不协调的，不相配的 | |
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incongruity
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| n.不协调，不一致 | |
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tranquil
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| adj. 安静的, 宁静的, 稳定的, 不变的 | |
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imperturbably
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| adv.泰然地，镇静地，平静地 | |
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inert
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| adj.无活动能力的，惰性的；迟钝的 | |
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ceramics
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| n.制陶业；陶器 | |
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mythologies
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| 神话学( mythology的名词复数 )； 神话（总称）； 虚构的事实； 错误的观点 | |
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steered
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| v.驾驶( steer的过去式和过去分词 )；操纵；控制；引导 | |
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idols
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| 偶像( idol的名词复数 )； 受崇拜的人或物； 受到热爱和崇拜的人或物； 神像 | |
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13
morbid
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| adj.病的；致病的；病态的；可怕的 | |
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axiomatic
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| adj.不需证明的，不言自明的 | |
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inevitable
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| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
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entailed
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| 使…成为必要( entail的过去式和过去分词 )； 需要； 限定继承； 使必需 | |
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spasms
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| n.痉挛( spasm的名词复数 )；抽搐；（能量、行为等的）突发；发作 | |
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upheavals
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| 突然的巨变( upheaval的名词复数 )； 大动荡； 大变动； 胀起 | |
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creed
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| n.信条；信念，纲领 | |
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creeds
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| （尤指宗教）信条，教条( creed的名词复数 ) | |
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transformations
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| n.变化( transformation的名词复数 )；转换；转换；变换 | |
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wrack
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| v.折磨；n.海草 | |
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pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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wilderness
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| n.杳无人烟的一片陆地、水等，荒漠 | |
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unintelligible
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| adj.无法了解的，难解的，莫明其妙的 | |
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passionate
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，激昂的，易动情的，易怒的，性情暴躁的 | |
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yearning
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| a.渴望的；向往的；怀念的 | |
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lesser
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| adj.次要的，较小的；adv.较小地，较少地 | |
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meditation
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| n.熟虑，（尤指宗教的）默想，沉思，（pl.）冥想录 | |
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founders
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| n.创始人( founder的名词复数 ) | |
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myriad
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| adj.无数的；n.无数，极大数量 | |
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disillusion
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| vt.使不再抱幻想，使理想破灭 | |
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irresistible
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| adj.非常诱人的，无法拒绝的，无法抗拒的 | |
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dwelling
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| n.住宅，住所，寓所 | |
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solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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stifled
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| （使）窒息， （使）窒闷( stifle的过去式和过去分词 )； 镇压，遏制； 堵 | |
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38
sniffing
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| n.探查法v.以鼻吸气，嗅，闻( sniff的现在分词 )；抽鼻子（尤指哭泣、患感冒等时出声地用鼻子吸气）；抱怨，不以为然地说 | |
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crumbling
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| adj.摇摇欲坠的 | |
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scent
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| n.气味，香味，香水，线索，嗅觉；v.嗅，发觉 | |
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41
lodging
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| n.寄宿，住所；(大学生的)校外宿舍 | |
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gaping
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| adj.口的；张口的；敞口的；多洞穴的v.目瞪口呆地凝视( gape的现在分词 )；张开，张大 | |
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43
sockets
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| n.套接字，使应用程序能够读写与收发通讯协定(protocol)与资料的程序( Socket的名词复数 )；孔( socket的名词复数 )；（电器上的）插口；托座；凹穴 | |
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throbbing
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| a. 跳动的,悸动的 | |
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fret
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| v.(使)烦恼；(使)焦急；(使)腐蚀，(使)磨损 | |
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virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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vices
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| 缺陷( vice的名词复数 )； 恶习； 不道德行为； 台钳 | |
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fecundity
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| n.生产力；丰富 | |
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49
tangible
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| adj.有形的，可触摸的，确凿的，实际的 | |
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50
ethical
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| adj.伦理的，道德的，合乎道德的 | |
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qualified
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| adj.合格的，有资格的，胜任的，有限制的 | |
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divestiture
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| n.剥夺 | |
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53
homeliness
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| n.简朴，朴实；相貌平平 | |
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54
lust
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| n.性(淫)欲；渴(欲)望；vi.对…有强烈的欲望 | |
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lusting
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| 贪求（lust的现在分词形式） | |
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eloquence
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| n.雄辩；口才，修辞 | |
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inevitably
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| adv.不可避免地；必然发生地 | |
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nominal
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| adj.名义上的；(金额、租金)微不足道的 | |
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nomad
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| n.游牧部落的人，流浪者，游牧民 | |
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instinctive
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| adj.(出于)本能的；直觉的；(出于)天性的 | |
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unity
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| n.团结，联合，统一；和睦，协调 | |
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dweller
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| n.居住者，住客 | |
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condensation
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| n.压缩，浓缩；凝结的水珠 | |
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attained
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| （通常经过努力）实现( attain的过去式和过去分词 )； 达到； 获得； 达到（某年龄、水平、状况） | |
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sterile
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| adj.不毛的，不孕的，无菌的，枯燥的，贫瘠的 | |
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compassion
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| n.同情，怜悯 | |
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perverted
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| adj.不正当的v.滥用( pervert的过去式和过去分词 )；腐蚀；败坏；使堕落 | |
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sensuous
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| adj.激发美感的；感官的，感觉上的 | |
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diluted
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| 无力的，冲淡的 | |
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shrill
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| adj.尖声的；刺耳的；v尖叫 | |
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texture
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| n.(织物)质地；(材料)构造；结构；肌理 | |
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majesty
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| n.雄伟，壮丽，庄严，威严；最高权威，王权 | |
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brilliance
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| n.光辉，辉煌，壮丽，（卓越的）才华，才智 | |
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deafen
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| vt.震耳欲聋；使听不清楚 | |
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uncouth
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| adj.无教养的，粗鲁的 | |
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disciples
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| n.信徒( disciple的名词复数 )；门徒；耶稣的信徒；（尤指）耶稣十二门徒之一 | |
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77
rebound
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| v.弹回；n.弹回，跳回 | |
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asceticism
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| n.禁欲主义 | |
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squandered
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| v.（指钱，财产等）浪费，乱花( squander的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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miser
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| n.守财奴，吝啬鬼 (adj.miserly) | |
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82
stews
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| n.炖煮的菜肴( stew的名词复数 )；烦恼，焦虑v.炖( stew的第三人称单数 )；煨；思考；担忧 | |
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83
enjoyment
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| n.乐趣；享有；享用 | |
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84
Christians
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| n.基督教徒( Christian的名词复数 ) | |
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85
hovered
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| 鸟( hover的过去式和过去分词 )； 靠近（某事物）； （人）徘徊； 犹豫 | |
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86
incorrigibly
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| adv.无法矫正地；屡教不改地；无可救药地；不能矫正地 | |
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87
motive
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| n.动机，目的；adv.发动的，运动的 | |
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88
unstable
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| adj.不稳定的，易变的 | |
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89
granite
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| adj.花岗岩，花岗石 | |
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90
crest
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| n.顶点；饰章；羽冠；vt.达到顶点；vi.形成浪尖 | |
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